Patriots Betrayed

by John Grit

  Photos of the bullet-riddled SUVs and cars covered much of the first page, as did several grisly crime scene photos of dried blood on the road, proof the reporters were not allowed on the scene until long after it had been sterilized. He turned the page.

  “Well?” Carla asked. She slipped her pistol into its holster.

  “They’re keeping quiet about our involvement. Just a Mob hit, they say.” Raylan turned pale, his eyes racing across the page as he sat down on the bed.

  “What is it?”

  He handed her the paper. “The pilot of the chopper I shot down was severely injured. He may not live. Another cop was injured but not seriously.”

  She didn’t bother to check the paper. Her eyes were on him. “I’m sorry, but we’re fighting for our lives, and we’re not the ones who involved the police, the company did.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “We had to take down that chopper, if we were to have any chance of getting away.”

  He nodded, pretending it didn’t bother him. “Yeah. There’s no time to cry about it now. We were lucky at the bank; no bystanders caught a stray bullet. We can’t be that lucky every time. Let’s leave this place behind us.” They walked the motorcycles out the door onto the parking lot. In a few minutes, they were doing sixty down a backcountry road.

  ~~~

  Janowski’s eyes widened. His white-knuckle grip on the phone caused tremors in his right arm. “Give me the names of those lost.” As the names were revealed to him, rage became terror. “The syndicate is in danger! It’s been precariously weakened. The payoffs to thousands of government officials and leaders have been shouldered equally among the whole group, but now there are so few, and the greedy hands are still extended. They only care about our money and will insist on the regular payments. There is no way the few of us left can pay the monthly overhead. And when we’re late on the payments, expect shipment losses and arrests of our employees. Eyes that have been miraculously blind over the years will suddenly see crimes committed under their noses again.” He got a grip on himself as the thought came to him he was revealing way too much of his fears and worries. Never let anyone know what you’re really thinking. Keep them guessing.

  Pierre Ladue, the man he was talking with, had a long history of uneasy cooperation with Janowski in a multitude of criminal endeavors and had always proven himself to be as much of an ally as anyone could be in the dirty business of white slavery, drugs, and illegal arms, but Janowski knew through long, painful experience there was no such thing as a friend in this world. He had been informed Ladue was not going to be at the meeting in the U.S., because Ladue had pressing issues to deal with in Germany and he had thought nothing of it at the time, but at the moment, suspicions raced through his mind.

  Ladue had an enterprise almost as large and profitable as Janowski’s. What Janowski was in the former Soviet Union Ladue was in France, the UK, and Germany, though he was nowhere near as violent and tried to keep a much lower profile, so as not to cause undue political pressure on the officials from which he purchased protection or at least a blind eye. His area of operations was nowhere near as dangerous as Janowski’s, and the two men had very different life histories and backgrounds. Ladue didn’t have a third of the professional killers Janowski had under his employ. He just didn’t have the need for them. Blood was expensive, and Ladue’s overhead was a lot lower, because he didn’t operate in a world quite as violent as Janowski’s, even though it was just as immoral and illegal. Though less bloody in his ways, Ladue was the more sophisticated man, and was known to be a dangerous adversary out of sheer cunning, whereas Janowski was dangerous out of sheer willingness to kill. When they worked together, which wasn’t that often because they had incompatible personalities like matter and antimatter trying to occupy the same space, the result was tens of millions in profit. Most of the time, they just stayed out of each other’s way, and that worked well enough, but occasionally they managed to work together to take advantage of an opportunity. They had learned to use liaisons on such occasions to insulate their incompatible personalities from each other, but this was too important a development to not speak man-to-man, if only over the phone.

  Ladue took advantage of the break in Janowski’s outburst. “Yes, there is risk, but there is also opportunity, my friend.”

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Janowski had calmed, but the edge was still in his voice. “The problem is I don’t have the funds for that kind of massive expansion of my organization at the moment, and I doubt you do either. The officials must be paid. Without protection, the cost of business would be too high. Too many shipments would be lost.”

  Ladue’s voice became even calmer and more soft-toned. “I have an idea that we should talk over, but not this way and not now. I will say only this for the moment: You must take care of the two thorns in our side soon. If that doesn’t happen, our discussion will never take place. Get that done; then we’ll talk.”

  He hung up.

  Janowski slammed the phone down. He had more to say and didn’t appreciate being hung up on. “The little French prick,” he muttered. “He’s a smart little bastard, though. I wonder what he’s up to. Whatever it is, I’d better watch my back.” He lumbered to his office door and swung it open. A hulking guard outside turned, his face expectant, waiting for an order. “Get a security team together. The best I’ve got. And tell them to prepare for travel. Have everyone at my jet waiting for me in less than two hours. Also, notify my American security people to be ready for our arrival.”

  Janowski turned and headed for the bar. After belting down a stiff drink, he looked out the window at the Moscow traffic below. I will take care of these two CIA killers myself. Then Pierre and I will talk. His face contorted from hatred when he thought of Yule Keevlof and his failures. You’re lucky, Yule. You died quick and painless, along with those you were charged to protect. The CIA killers just might not be so lucky. If taken alive, their screams will last for hours.

  ~~~

  After traveling all day and half the night, Raylan and Carla checked in another motel, using the same tactic as before. As far as the manager was concerned, it was just a woman traveling alone, who had come by cab. No man and no motorcycles, nothing to tie them to a couple wanted for treason and murder.

  They made use of the bathroom, slept for three hours, and snuck out of the motel. In thirty minutes, they were on the outskirts of town, heading northwest. They were low on money and had no particular destination, just away, far away. When the money ran out, they would have to look for work, using their last untainted aliases. The million deposited in the Bahamas bank was out of reach. At least for the time being. A kill team was surely waiting for them to show up. They could have it transferred to another bank anywhere in the world, but CIA computer hackers would know, and a team would be waiting. There were ways they could get some of the money without getting killed, but that would have to wait.

  Since being forced to find work to earn money, or steal it in a desperate robbery, was one of the most common ways fugitives were caught by the police, Raylan kept his mind busy as he rode. He would much rather they had money to live on and travel with. Certainly, they needed a new ride. Those hunting them knew they were on motorcycles, as the helicopter crew had seen them, and they had to dump them soon. Maybe they could get their hands on some of that million without getting killed. He had enough left in his money belt to last a while, but they were going to be on the run a long time, at least he hoped so. The alternative was bleak. They needed cash, untraceable, anonymity providing, no-questions-asked cash.

  Raylan and Carla blew through Tennessee and Arkansas, enduring several thunderstorms, shivering in their wet clothes at highway speeds. At sunrise one morning, they turned north and entered Missouri, where they found a motel and enjoyed a much needed shower and rest. After a sunset meal, they were on the road again. They didn’t leave the highway until they pulled into Topeka, Kansas. Another motel stop and they hit the local streets, this time to look up a b
ank and an Internet cafe.

  Carla stayed with the bikes, while Raylan paid for half an hour on the Net. He found a computer in a back corner, looking for as much privacy as possible. He logged onto his Bahamas bank account. He had a fake corporation registered in Florida, and a bank account with little money in it in the name of that corporation. First, he transferred exactly one million dollars to his Florida corporate account, then he had it transferred to an old account he had in the UK under an alias he hadn’t used lately, a Frank Branston. It just so happened a Frank Branston had opened an account in Topeka that morning. Finally, he had the million transferred to that account. It would take the CIA techies a while to hack into so many bank records in so many different countries and track his money to its destination.

  ~~~

  The next day, Carla helped Raylan with a disguise that didn’t add years to his age, but would actually make him appear a little younger and better-looking. He entered the bank and asked to speak to the manager.

  “Is there a problem with your account?” the thirty-something blonde teller asked. She pulled her eyebrows together and eyed him with suspicion.

  He smiled in an effort to reassure her he had no complaints about her service. “I’m still waiting for my debit card and checks to arrive, so I would like to make a withdrawal.”

  “I can handle that. I just need your driver license and account number.”

  “It’s a rather large sum, and I would like to have the manager handle it.”

  “How large?”

  He chose an amount large enough to convince her he needed the manager but not so large as to attract unwanted attention from the other patrons in the bank lobby. He leaned across the counter and whispered, “Over ten grand – cash.”

  “Oh. Well, let me see if she’s busy.” The teller peeked into the open door of an office. “I think you can go on over.”

  “Thanks.” Raylan stopped at the office door and waited to be invited in.

  The striking brunette seemed young to be a bank manager, especially since this wasn’t a small branch office. He turned on the charm, but she was a bit young for him, so he didn’t overdo it. He knew his limitations when it came to women. Some women her age found him attractive, but certainly not all. Overdoing it here could cost him more than a dirty look. He had noticed the ring on her finger when he walked in, and took that into consideration, also. Just a little friendliness and charm was called for, but not too much.

  Raylan offered his hand and when she rose from her chair to give him hers, he held it in both hands just for a second, staring into her eyes and smiling warmly. “My name is Frank Branston. You must have been off yesterday when I opened an account here. I certainly would have remembered you.”

  “Julia, my assistant must have handled your request.” She sat down. “You might say she’s second in command here.” She glanced down at the papers he set on her desk in front of him. “My name is Sheryl.”

  He sat in the chair and pretended to get comfortable. “I had a large sum transferred to my account here, and I would like to make a cash withdrawal. I won’t be receiving the debit card and checkbook in the mail for some time, and I have bills that must be paid before then.”

  “I can give you some temporary checks until your regular checks arrive.”

  “They won’t take a check.”

  She tilted her head. “They will only take cash?”

  “That’s the size of it. They won’t accept my out-of-state check, and I doubt they’ll take temporary checks to draw from my account here either. You see, I hired several men to do some work around a home I bought out in the country. You know the type. Kind of backwoodsy and rough around the edges. But they worked hard and got the job done right. I certainly don’t mind paying them; they earned it. Furthermore, it’s time to buy more lumber, and I’m purchasing it from a sawmill run by a man who also refuses to take my out-of-state checks. I’m learning fast that cash is king with the country folks in this county.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Yeah, there are plenty like that around here.” She flashed a mischievous smile. “Of course it has nothing to do with the IRS and income tax.”

  He gave her an understanding look, as if it were a private joke. “That’s between them and Uncle Sam. All I know is I pay my taxes. Whether they do or not is no worries of mine. They gave me my money’s worth and I owe them. That’s how I see it.”

  “Okay, Mr. Branston, let’s see your account information and identification.”

  He handed over several documents, including a driver’s license.

  She punched in his account number and scanned the screen. Her eyes expanded a little, and she looked across the desk at him. “Nice numbers there, Mr. Branston. There is one problem: a waiting period of five days is standard for direct deposits like this. Come back next week.”

  “Does that hold for simple bank-to-bank transfers? Those guys want to get paid.”

  She thought for a moment. “Well, how much do you want?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Eventually I’m going to need thirty-five thousand, but can get by with less for now. I’m having the place remodeled.”

  She stifled a laugh. “We don’t keep that kind of cash here.”

  He feigned surprise. “You mean that small amount would break the bank?”

  She rubbed her chin. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Branston. A man of your wealth would know that we deal with computer information mostly, not so much cash. What is the smallest amount that you can get by with today?”

  Raylan walked out of the bank with fifteen thousand in one hundred dollar bills.

  By prior arrangement, he walked out with twenty thousand the next week. That was as far as he would push his luck with her. Of course she filed the IRS forms notifying them of the large sums withdrawn, and federal law prohibited withdrawing just under the limit to trigger the necessity of filing such reports. CIA techies had by then tracked the money to the Topeka bank, and he couldn’t return for more cash. A kill team would be waiting. He could drain more out of the account with checks and the debit card, but that would leave a trail for their pursuers to follow.

  The next day, his debit card and checkbook arrived at a Post Office Box he had rented.

  Over the next few weeks, he wrote checks to himself and cashed them at other branch offices of his bank. It was a risky move, but he and Carla reconnoitered the bank and surrounding area before he set foot on the property. He also used the debit card at every grocer and department store in the county to get cash back, asking for the maximum allowed each time, usually sixty dollars. At the rate he was going, it would take forever to drain that million from his account. The most cash he got in one day using the debit card was just over eleven hundred dollars.

  Carla thought it was funny. He had run himself ragged, draining the account in tiny amounts. For all his effort, he had collected less than fifty thousand in cash. Added to what he had left in his money belt, their cash reserve amounted to seventy-eight thousand. They also had a pile of canned goods and clothing he had purchased, along with more ammo for their weapons. He even found some ammo for the fifty, but it was inaccurate machinegun stuff, useful, but not for long range sniping. All of their newly purchased supplies were kept in an almost-new Ford van he had purchased from a private seller. It had become their de facto home and provided a way to keep the motorcycles out of sight. They equipped it with a small gas refrigerator and stove and installed a roof air-conditioner. A gas generator provided power when they camped in woods outside of town. They were not exactly living high, but were surviving as Raylan collected a little of that million.

  It was time to leave town, so Raylan found another internet cafe and transferred nine hundred thousand to an account he had in Germany, then back to his old account in Florida, where it would stay until…well, he had no idea if Carla or he would ever see another dime of that money. He left plenty in the Topeka account to draw from, using the debit card and checks. But both would leave a trail for their enemies to
follow, so he had to stop using them soon, if they were to find a place to hold out for a while.

  They bought four five-gallon plastic gas cans and filled them, along with the van’s fuel tank, and hit the road again. The title for the van still had not been processed by DMV, and it was in a clean alias’s name, so it couldn’t be traced to them. Barring any serious contact with the police or being connected to the van someway, they should be able to travel anywhere in the U.S. with no trouble. They knew their motel habit would have to be shaken, so they resigned themselves to sleeping in the van and cleaning up wherever they could. As a measure to throw off their pursuers, Raylan left his debit card on the table of a truck stop eatery. A trucker heading for Mexico snatched it off the table on the way out and immediately started using it to buy fuel and food with as he traveled south. That little trick threw those hunting them off for several days. By that time, the two fugitives were in Idaho.

  Chapter 10

  While Raylan filled the van at an Idaho Falls gas station, Carla bought a few items in the convenience store. She returned with cold drinks and a paper. Sliding into the passenger seat, she kept her eyes glued to the front page.

  Raylan finished fueling the van and got behind the wheel. Before he cranked the engine, Carla handed him the paper. “The shit’s hit the fan in Washington. Looks like some veteran groups have organized and are demanding the company be cleaned up and the crooks in Washington arrested.”

  Raylan skimmed over the reports. “The usual government haters and bat-shits have also joined in.” He pointed. “Look.” A photo captured a woman holding up a sign demanding the president tell Americans the truth about UFOs and space aliens. “Well, the anarchists have good reason to bitch this time.” He handed the paper back to her. “Great that the vets are protecting what’s left of our freedoms, but as far as I’m concerned, we’re out of it. I just want to be left alone. If the people can’t get off their ass and do something about corruption this time, to hell with it.”